


Five Times Holmes Hurt Himself and One Time Watson Was Injured

by Arsenic



Series: By the Numbers [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, LLF Comment Project, Light BDSM, Multi, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 12:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13904070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Mary and Watson don't like it when Holmes is hurt.  Holmes really, REALLY doesn't like when one of them is hurt.





	Five Times Holmes Hurt Himself and One Time Watson Was Injured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esteefee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/gifts).



> Huge thanks to Teeelsie for the fantastic beta. This fic would not have been written if not for the suggestion of Esteefee, who gave a ridiculously generous amount to charities that were desperately in need in exchange for me writing it. Her heart awes me, and writing this for her was so, so much fun.

**One**

Holmes accepts that in this instance, he might be somewhat at fault. It's not that he means to get himself into these situations, it's rather that he's not risk-averse enough to prevent it. Also, his job requires a certain amount of willingness to dive into danger.

He will explain all of this to Mary and Watson as soon as he returns to them. Of course, returning to them requires getting free, which, among other things, involves his captors returning. The plan he has cooked up is dependent upon that.

They have to return at some point, since the value of the stolen goods in whatever cellar or bunker he's currently in is extensive. Of course, they do not have to return before Holmes has embarrassed himself. It's a petty game, played by petty men.

Still, Holmes would prefer they _not_ play it. Nonetheless, everything is under control. All he needs is for his captors to return and get anywhere within range of where either his arms or legs are manacled. It is only a matter of time.

*

Holmes does not mean to drift. Indeed, he does everything within his power to see that he will not. His palms are gouged to the point of bleeding, he has tapped out the entirety of the first three pages of the most recent book he read in Morse code with one foot, but at a certain point there is nothing to be done for it. He is strapped on his back, has not eaten in some time, and is quite cold. His body will force rest upon him, whether he appreciates it or no.

But drift he does, given all this, and if he were not stiff with cold and inaction it might not have been enough to throw off his plan. He is a light sleeper, after all, and wakes the moment the door to his current underground hellhole squeaks. The effects of the long wait take a toll on his body, however, and while he still manages his freedom, but it is at rather more of a cost than he had planned. That is, there's a knife embedded quite firmly in the meat of his outer thigh when he has choked out his opponent and fished out his key ring. 

It's not bleeding enough to have hit any arteries, thankfully, but Holmes knows better than to pull it out. He steadies himself on his feet. They've taken his shoes, and both his ankles and wrists are raw and torn from the manacles. He looks a mess, and no self-respecting driver will stop for him. There's also the matter of actually getting out of whatever catacomb they've stuffed him in.

Holmes strips his opponent of anything useful: his shoes, which are too big, but better than bare feet in the streets of London; a pistol; and two more knives. He then limps carefully to the doorway. There's no one immediately guarding it, which is a turn of good luck. He glances down the hallway in each direction, calculating the odds of either being the exit. In the end, he takes an educated guess.

It turns out to be correct, but also involves dispatching three more lackeys. They aren't even difficult to handle. Still, by the time Holmes emerges from a manhole into a tucked away alley—two more there as well—his vision has grayed out everywhere but the direct center, and each step requires swallowing down bile.

He steals a cloak off one of the two alley rats he's shot and does his best to blend in with the crowds walking in the more populated main thoroughfares. He is a little over a mile from the flat as the crow flies, more like two in terms of streets, particularly if he plans to stay with the masses.

He takes a deep breath, and focuses on moving, moving, and not stopping.

*

He misses his own flat. It only takes him a block to realize it, but nonetheless, it is something he'd rather never divulge. He doubles back and manages to pound on the door. That final effort—or perhaps just the adrenaline crash of having reached his destination—leaves him too dizzied to stand. When Mrs. Hudson opens the door, he falls inside.

Everything fades to the sounds of her shrieking.

*

He wakes to silence and the smell of formaldehyde, but also the scents of rubbing alcohol and tea. Home. Holmes takes a breath and immediately regrets it, as even that bit of movement causes his thigh to throb. Also, it clues Watson into the fact that he has woken. Watson folds the paper he was reading without hurry and says, "Well, you aren't dead, old boy. Not for lack of trying, certainly."

Aside from the words, there is nothing light about the statement; neither Watson's cadence nor tone, nor even his stance. Holmes' gaze flickers to where Mary is staring out the window, her back rigid, breathing shallow.

Holmes has learned, repeatedly, that the best way to get the two of them to forgive him is to apologize and ask forgiveness. He has also learned that he is constitutionally incapable of not defending his own actions, no matter how indefensible.

"If you wouldn't mind ringing for Scotland Yard, I have something to report."

Judging from the stillness of both of them, skipping past the defense to imply the ends justified the means might not have been the best way of approaching the situation. There's the beat of his own heart, a second beat, and then Watson turns and leaves the room. Mary follows, closing the door behind him.

*

The Inspector comes later that day. Mary and Watson do not return. Mrs. Hudson changes his bandages but does not rise to any of his baiting, and so it is only his voice he hears. This is true of the next day, and the next.

On the third day, he wakes intolerably restless, and even knowing that it will perhaps only make things worse, dresses himself and heads out to find them.

*

They are at Watson's offices, predictably. It sours Holmes' stomach, even though it is expected, because it is such a plain statement that they are not hiding from him, they are simply avoiding being in his presence. He has to sit down in the waiting area, the walk of a few blocks having exhausted him.

Mary comes out to call for the next patient and does not even glance at him. He is not always intelligent about emotions, he knows this. But he also is aware that he has done wrong. If they will not let him make amends—

He does not allow the continuation of that thought. He does not have much control over his tangents, but he has some, and he will use it here. When he can stand without dizziness, he does so and makes his way into the room where Watson takes his notes and Mary keeps track of the books. He seats himself at the desk and waits.

*

Holmes wakes, his head coming off the cushion of his arm, at the opening of the door. Watson is entering, and despite just having woken, and being in the midst of healing, Holmes' mind catalogues the stains on Watson's shirtsleeves, evidence of the illnesses his patients come to him to heal. Holmes wants to take him far away from here, where sickness cannot touch him.

The thought is the height of hypocrisy. It prompts Holmes to say, "I'm sorry, old boy. I am. I didn't mean—"

Watson closes the door and rubs a hand over his eyes. "You never do."

Holmes opens his mouth but then shuts it. He pauses before saying, apologetically, "I cannot be anyone other than myself."

Mary must have been expecting Watson to return, because she enters the small office clearly seeking him. Upon seeing Holmes she shuts the door behind her. He sits up a bit more straight, waiting for her to tell him to leave. For Watson to say, "Yes, well, be that as it may, it is unsupportable."

Instead, Watson says, "He has apologized."

Mary lets displeasure cloud her tone even as she says, "Took him long enough."

"Yes, well," Watson says, and it does not escape Holmes' notice that they are both watching her, waiting to see what his sentence will be.

"No cases for another two weeks," Mary states.

Holmes' stomach tightens. She must see something, because she smiles. It should be mocking, he probably deserves that, but it is not. Instead, she comes and seats herself in his lap, teetering so that it is instinctual for him to reach out and steady her. 

She leans in and presses her lips to the shell of his ear. "Don't worry so, darling. We'll find ways to keep you occupied."

His breath catches at the implication. In the background, Watson makes a considering noise. "Two whole weeks with nothing to do but take punishment, eh?"

Holmes is beginning to fear that the punishment will be even more wearing than the damage that landed him in trouble to begin with. Fear and anticipate.

Mary's laughter is light. "I do believe we have his attention, John."

Holmes looks up into her eyes. "That, my dear, you always do."

**Two**

Holmes will not apologize. Mary and Watson may rail at him as much as they so choose, but Holmes will stand in front of bullets and carriages and any other form of danger that might threaten them. They can walk away from him, so long as they are able to walk.

The bullet—since it is a literal bullet in this instance—slams into the upper floor of his pelvis, on the right. He is not the medical doctor that Watson is, still he believes it to be rather better than having been a bit higher, where his stomach and ribs would have caught it, or a bit lower, with the risk of hitting an artery. All in all, quite lucky.

The shot Watson gets off in the moment when Holmes is dazed, that split second before the pain hits, does the job. Holmes looks down at the ground. It is farther away than he would prefer, given that he is only on his feet. Watson's hands are on him, then, beneath his arms, lowering him carefully. Holmes says, "Excellent shot, old boy."

It doesn't come out with the crispness he would like it to. There is perhaps a bit of a whine at the end. Watson says, "Quiet, let me work," and then presses his cravat to the wound. Holmes sees stars. He might yell. 

Watson says, "Yes, well, serves you right for being so bloody heroic all the time."

There is something wrong in that. Holmes is not heroic. Clever, yes. Right, often. Most of the time, however, merely too lost in the details to feel the fear he ought to. It takes very little to do something brave if one is not brightly aware of how close it will bring him to pain or death.

Of course, this was something different. This was not heroic, either. This was desperation, the act of a man who cannot live without something. Someone. Two someones. 

"Hold on, old boy," Watson says. Holmes isn’t entirely sure why he is saying it. He's very tired, is all, and Watson doesn't look angry so much as worried.

"'Twill come all right," Holmes slurs, and tries to pay attention to what Watson responds. He needs to rest, though. Mary is always saying he doesn't rest enough, isn't she? She will be happy with him, at least.

*

Holmes does not recognize either the ambient sounds or scents of the room in which he wakes. Often this has meant danger, so he keeps his lids lowered, noting the minor ache in his hip, and the slowness of his thoughts. Laudanum, then. He's trying to assess his surroundings when Mary asks, "Are you awake, then?"

He opens his eyes at that. If he _is_ in trouble, then she is too, and Holmes will not stand for that. Opening his eyes, however, brings home the fact that he is not in trouble, merely in the hospital. Or, well, not in the kind of trouble he had imagined. The line of Mary's mouth suggests he's not entirely free of censure at this moment.

She sits on the side of bed opposite his wound and cups his cheek with her hand. "Whatever am I going to do with you?"

Holmes is entirely uncertain, but none of the suggestions he has are ones he would want her taking, so he keeps his own counsel. She shakes her head and there is the hint of tears in her eyes. He bites his cheek and forces himself not to look away. He has done this. It is only right that he suffer through it.

She wipes her eyes hastily with her free hand and says, "Thank you, for saving John."

Holmes blinks, both out of surprise that this is her opening gambit and that she would think it needs to be said. She continues, "I know he is everything to you, I know it."

Holmes frowns at that. Not everything. Half of everything. Mary is still speaking, though. "But I could not bear to lose either one of you, and he—Sherlock, you really cannot understand what he was like when you were gone. You cannot have any idea of how vital a piece was missing from him. If it were to happen because you were protecting him, I don't know that even I could keep him from going mad."

Holmes takes her point, truly he does. He just is not sure what his options are. There is always not allowing Watson to be in the position in the first place. It seems so simple in theory and yet it never quite plays out the way Holmes imagines it. Everything else, fights, cases, life at large, and he can generally see twelve paces ahead, but Mary and Watson are his blind spots.

He presses his face into her palm and rasps, "I apologize," against the skin.

She pulls away and it is all he can do not to make a sound. He just manages. She is back shortly with water that is blessedly cold and soothing on his throat. She kisses his forehead, and Holmes falls back asleep with the warmth of it burning like a brand. It is a scar he wants, something to say, "This is theirs, property of John and Mary Watson."

**Three**

Holmes has tried to explain to both of them, numerous times, how sometimes the club, with its overwhelming din to allow his brain some white noise, the fight to focus it, and the pain to give him something that keeps him grounded, is an addiction, yes, but one he would go mad without. Despite what it might appear, he _is_ careful about it.

He doesn't do anything that will land him with the kind of injury he would need Watson to patch or sew or set for him. He just needs the kind of quiet that the noise and the mental exercise and the bruising provide, that is all. There is nothing quite like it. Holmes has tried to find something numerous times, and failed every single one of them. He dislikes failure. He supposes that is axiomatic, but he thinks it possible that he dislikes failure more than the average person.

In any case, he needs the club. Not always. Not even particularly regularly. But occasionally, when a case is eating at him, unable to come together, or Mary and Watson are handling a bout of seasonal illness and leave him for the office for days on end, coming home only to collapse around him in bed, and leaving before he can wake. Times like those it is either the club or braining himself in the bathtub. The latter isn't nearly as satisfying.

Mary and Watson have gone to visit her family. Mary had said, "come, we'll find an explanation," with her quiet, steady sureness, but Holmes had shooed them with words about not being the kind you took home to mother. It is most likely true. Holmes knows his social capabilities border more toward insane-uncle-from- whom-everyone-looks-askance than charming-professional-partner, and he would no doubt need to pass off the latter to make everything seem proper in that instance.

Also, the first time Mary met him she hated him. And yes, he was somewhat going for that, but it doesn't bode well for meeting her family. He'd…prefer they did not. Hate him, that is.

He's been left on his own for the fortnight, though. The cases he's picked up have barely held his attention for more than a few hours at a time. He holds out for over a week, but on the tenth night he is actually, literally climbing the walls, trying to work on a solution to allow for scaling vertical structures. He hasn’t slept in three days. He doesn't even intend to fight. He just wants to go and have a drink, maybe several, and be surrounded by the too-too-much of the club, see if that's enough to blunt everything.

He just wants to sleep, really, is all.

*

He fights. Three drinks in and the burn isn't enough, the sound roaring but not quite reaching the point where it turns white. He fights and the structure of it gets him where he wants to go. He fights and he comes home with a wrenched shoulder, a torso that will be telltale black when Mary and Watson return, and pissing blood. He fights and he sleeps.

*

Holmes thinks Watson has quite given up trying to change him, and has instead settled for looking at him with those artfully disappointed eyes that make Holmes want to commit ritual suicide. Mary, however, is a dragon who has returned to find her hoard tampered with. She rails at him even as she rubs liniment into the remaining bruises, the healing shoulder.

When she has run out of things to yell at him about, she asks quietly, "Is it the pain? Is that what you need?"

He looks away from her. He does not care what the public thinks of him, of his needs. He knows they are…deviant. But she has accepted him in every other way that matters. He does not wish to find where the bounds of her tolerance for his sickness lie.

Just as softly, but with a firmer bent, she asks again, "Holmes? Is that what you need?"

"In part," he bites out.

"And in other part?" she asks.

The words feel like liquor coming back up, hot and fetid. "Something on which to focus. Something to ignore."

"Why can you never just ask for what you need, old boy?" Watson sighs, as if Holmes has acknowledged liking coffee better than tea, or something equally pedantic. 

Holmes doesn't know the answer to that. He's not sure he was ever taught to do so.

*

Holmes can always tell when they haven't forgotten something. In part because they rarely do. It would have been easier to have been interested in one or two persons who could blithely let his transgressions pass, but he doubts that type of person could hold his attention for more than a few moments, if that.

When the bruises have faded to nothing but shadows, Mary tells him at breakfast, "You will be in our bedroom at seven of the clock this evening, I do not particularly care if there is a plot to blow up all of London. We shall just have to perish with the rest of the city. You shall be there, and you shall be waiting, unclothed."

He blinks at this last. Mary or Watson will often state sexual preferences with him, guide him through experiences he has not had before, or simply be imperious with his time as a way of forcing him to still, to pay attention. (Or he supposes that is what they believe they are doing. He is always paying attention to them in some part.) But never has either of them ordered him to do something bodily without conferring with him first. He almost expects to feel excited by the command. He doesn't, but the way it settles inside him is somehow better. Lust is easy, at least with them. The emotions under it, those are harder.

"Very well," he says, finishes his tea, and goes off to get as much done as he can before such time as he has been ordered to present himself.

*

They make him wait. How long he cannot tell. There is no clock in the room, and he has no desire to get caught checking the watch atop his folded clothing. It is almost impossible to stay where he has been told without anything to distract him, his mind racking up tiny details that are familiar, picking them apart despite having done so a million times before.

When he is near to breaking, to pleading for them to come, they walk in, both fully dressed. It is terrifying, and yet he is not terrified. Mary is holding the rattan rug beater that he has seen in Mrs. Hudson's hands more times than he can count. It looks different being held in Mary's long, elegant fingers.

"Darling," Watson says softly, and it takes Holmes a minute to realize Watson is speaking to him, not Mary. He wrenches his gaze from Mary's hand to Watson's face. Watson smiles, just a bit. "We're going to punish you. And this time, we shall tell you why, although there is no guarantee in the future that we shall not make you say it, instead. But for now, we shall make it clear that this is for doing harm to yourself, for not trusting that we could help if you would just confide."

Holmes considers this. He imagines that with anyone else he would already be railing, telling them they had no right. Instead he murmurs, "I am sorry?"

Watson kisses his forehead. "We know, darling. But we need you to know that you can come to us. And we believe this to be the best way to teach you."

Mary says, "You can say no. And we will cease."

Holmes presses his face into Watson's neck as he asks, "And if I do not?"

"Then we shall proceed."

Holmes stays silent. He hears the rustle of her skirts and soon she is positioning him, hands on the bed. Watson is kneeling before him, his hands capturing Holmes face. "You shall pay attention to me and only me until I let go."

Holmes nods his understanding. Mary places a hand on his back. "If you say stop, we stop. If you ask, we stop. If you move, we stop. Understood?"

"Understood."

"You will count. After each. If you lose count, or repeat a number, we stop," Watson tells him.

He nods. He doesn't even have time to tense before the first hit. There's nothing held back in it, and the pain is…too much, not enough, heat and impact, focusing and shattering all at once. "One."

Watson talks to him of anatomy, of pestilence, of what, Holmes does not know, he cannot listen and keep count, and he does not want to lose count. The sound of Watson's voice is nothing but a background of ocean waves, hitting him with a different force than the rug beater, but no less forceful in its own way. "Twenty-five," he says. "Thirty-six," he says.

He must lose count or repeat at sixty-seven, for she stops. He does not realize it at first, the heat and pain crashing over him, lulling him to a perfect state of quiet, something he has never entirely known before. He has the vague sense that they are fussing, but it is far away. He mumbles, "thank you," or he hopes he does, hopes he actually forms the words, "love you." His body is not his own, though, it is theirs and he cannot say how wonderful it is for them to have taken it, to have given it the care he has never been able to.

*

He wakes aching and rested and in a state of wonder. Mary and Watson are curled around him on either side, both naked now as well. He doesn't feel the need to get up, to pace, to even think. His mind does catalogue, of course, that is his mind, but it does so at an almost leisurely pace, and the things it catalogues are calming: the rate of Mary's breaths against his shoulder; the steady beat of Watson's heart against his cheek; the warmth of where their skin presses into his. It is a map of comfort, rather than a distraction or a puzzle pulling him in too many directions.

The pulse of it carries him back into sleep.

**Four**

There are times when Holmes hates his instinctive attention to detail. This is no more true than while trying desperately to stay afloat the filth that is the whole of the Thames, as well as keeping the head of the young girl he's attempting to rescue above it. It's March, which sounds very spring-like, but is really just a lie told to the human race to keep them in line while spring takes its merry time rolling around the corner _perhaps_ in April, should it feel like it. 

Which is to say, the Thames is a third ice, a third current, and a third sewage, and Holmes does not get paid enough to fish out children who have been thrown into it by traffickers. And yet, here he is.

It's a good half-mile or so until he is able to catch hold of a barge. The men on it haul him and the girl up, and cover them in blankets that reek of ash and soot, one particularly burly specimen who must be the captain ushering them into a cabin that is spartan but boasts a fireplace with a pot of boiling water over it. Holmes works to keep himself and the girl awake until well after they are both shivering so hard it is painful. 

The girl curls up against him, and he blinks down at her, rationally aware of how she has come to see him as a safe harbor, but still mystified that anyone so small and unformed should. She yawns, and then shakes herself. "Sorry, sir."

"It's Holmes," he says, for lack of anything else to respond. "What's your name?"

"Mary," she tells him, yawning again.

"Yes, of course," he murmurs. "It's all right, Mary, you can sleep now. I'll wake you when we dock."

*

Mary, his Mary, and Watson assure him they will find a home for the little Mary. "No workhouses," he says, and he must still be feeling the worst of the cold, because he cannot seem to get his arms to loosen from her. The Scotland Yard Inspector is looking at him as though he's gone daft. Mary pushes the man subtly toward Watson, who distracts him.

"No, love, of course not," she says softly, only for his ears. "No workhouses, nowhere she can be taken from again."

It feels hard to breathe. Perhaps there is liquid in his lungs, or just the cold of the air. He does not cling to elements of a case once it has been satisfactorily solved, as this one has. 

He does not know what is in his expression—reason for alarm in and of itself—but it causes Mary to say, "Sherlock."

He startles at the use of his given name. It is rare, even between them, and particularly outside the private confines of the flat. She repeats herself, "Sherlock, trust me. Trust John. We will not fail you."

Holmes knows so many things. Thousands of millions of facts, data, pieces of information. There are none that he trusts so much as that one truth.

*

Once he has gotten himself home, Holmes sits in front of the fire drinking tea which Watson has steeped just to Holmes' tastes. He does not understand why it is that he cannot seem to warm himself. It must be quite heated in the flat, if the way Watson and Mary have stripped themselves down to shirtsleeves and underclothes is any indication, and yet he is chilled.

He loses track of time in recounting the facts of the case, making sure he has not missed anything, missed more children, and is pulled out of his reveries by Watson's calloused, warm hand pressing itself to Holmes' forehead.

Holmes leans into the touch without entirely meaning to. Watson sighs and Holmes almost straightens, but then Watson says, "I suspect your impromptu swim hastened the onset of whatever was plaguing you before you decided upon that course of action."

"It was hardly an eager decision," Holmes murmurs and then realizes what has been said and looks up. "I was not—am not—coming down with anything."

"Mm," Watson responds, which is Wastonish for "I disagree with every word that has just left your mouth." He redirects with, "Come, old boy, I know a way to tempt you into a warm bath."

Watson strips off his shirtsleeves even as he walks away, and well, yes, that will tempt Holmes. Watson has taken to playing distinctly unfairly.

*

The bath warms him—the bath, and the circle of Watson's arms—but Holmes is dizzy and aching by the time the water has drained.

Mary must have changed the linens on the bed, because they are fresh-smelling, soft against skin that feels overly sensitive, and cool against his cheeks, which seem to be burning, now. He swears he was cold only a moment ago. Watson's hands, large and capable, fold him into the blankets. Holmes finds himself asking, "You won't leave, will you?"

He shakes his head—which causes the dizziness to flare and for a moment he thinks he might vomit—"I didn't mean—"

"We're here, Holmes," Watson tells him. "Sleep, we're here."

*

He sleeps. Nightmares of Mary or Watson being carried away in a torrent of icy, filthy water wake him, and either Watson or Mary is there, coaxing him to take tea that tastes of sour herbs, swallow medicines that taste even worse. He feels as if his muscles have all been taken out and beaten individually, one by one by one. His throat aches even when the warm tea slides down it, and he coughs so hard he pulls a muscle in his chest, which only makes things worse.

He cannot think beyond the fever and the panic the dreams induce. Voices he knows reassure him that he is fine, he is safe, but it is not himself he is worried about. He is certain he cries out, certain he wails and perhaps even begs, although whom he is begging is not clear even to himself. Only what he is begging for: that they are safe, safe and his.

*

The fever breaks what Holmes will later learn is close to four days after his adventure in the Thames. He wakes chilled and to the sight of Mary sleeping next to him, her face pale and shadows ringing her eyes. He pulls the blanket over her as he gets out of the bed. His knees threaten to give at first, but he steadies himself and wobbles toward the kitchen, hoping for tea and perhaps some bread or eggs. He is starving.

Watson is at the table, staring listlessly at a dish of coddled eggs. Holmes says, "If you're merely going to stare at your food, mind if I indulge?"

Watson looks over at him, blinking. After a moment he buries his face in a hand and although the sob that follows is silent, Holmes can see it in the heave of his shoulders. Holmes blanches, making his way to kneel in front of Watson and say, "Now then, old boy, none of that."

From behind his hand, Watson mumbles, "None of that, he says. None of—you could have _died_." He peers out from his hand at this. "People with considerably lesser fevers have, Holmes."

"Oh," Holmes responds. "Ah, well." Carefully he tries, "As you can see…I did not. Perish."

Watson looks at him, eyes still wet. "You're hopeless, Holmes, but you are one half of my world."

Holmes finds himself staring, uncertain how to respond to such a pronouncement. Watson shakes his head. "Eat the eggs. I'll make some tea."

It feels as if there should be something else to say, to do, but Watson is already rising, so Holmes sits, as bid, and eats. In this, he can take instruction.

**Five**

It was a date. Mary had just wanted, "My boys to take me for dinner, perhaps a show, or afternoon tea and a walk around Hyde Park." The way she had said it, that quiet smile, the spark in her eye that showed she knew precisely how improper it would be, well, there were many things Holmes could not bring himself to resist in her, but her mischievous streak was easily at the top of the list.

Lunch had gone quite swimmingly. It was early June, tulips were still blossoming, along with the other riotous bulbs that Holmes could name and create taxonomies for, but didn't need to when he was with Mary and Watson, who could keep him engaged merely by breathing.

It was when Mary had pleaded for a ride through the park that things had taken a decidedly less idyllic turn. Watson had challenged Holmes with a quietly flat look, and Holmes had sighed and gone to rent them horses. Certainly it would hurt his pride for Mary to see his discomfort—fear was for men who did not have rational reasons to be certain that what they were about to do was unwise—but he had suffered worse for Watson, and would again, when asked.

He had managed to get himself a smaller filly than the geldings Watson and Mary were seated upon, Mary looking entirely too regal in side-saddle. The filly could sense his lack of trust, but nonetheless seemed fairly well behaved for an animal born and bred to bedevil humankind. To be clear, Holmes didn't find this irrational on the part of horses, really, quite the opposite. He found it irrational that humans felt the need to _ignore_ this fatal flaw on the part of the animal.

No doubt everything would have been fine had Holmes had a better control of the horse, but when two racing phaetons flew by, his nerves about Mary and Watson's safety and his inexperience combined to create a situation whereby the horse both took off and reared up at the same moment, causing Holmes to go flying off and nearly into Mary's horse, which panicked in turn.

Thankfully, both Watson and Mary were accomplished in the saddle, and as such Holmes was not trampled to death, but he had heard something crack upon hitting the ground and was just now realizing that his wrist was screaming in pain. After assessing that Watson and Mary are still seated and perfectly safe, he takes a breath and lifts the wrist to cradle it to his chest.

It's then that he sees the blood and the white of bone visible where it should not be. Watson and Mary are there, suddenly, Watson saying, "No, no, don't move it," even as Mary says, "The hospital, we need—"

Holmes thinks it important to mention, "This was not my fault."

He senses he might slur some of it. Watson is doing something and the pain it causes is cacophonous inside Holmes' head, causing everything to go gray and then, slowly, darker.

*

He comes to in the hospital transport, although only long enough to catch Watson speaking with the driver, and Mary holding onto Holmes' unharmed hand. Then there is a jolt, the pain spikes, and Holmes loses his tenuous grasp on consciousness.

*

He wakes again to find most of his arm encased in plaster, suspended, and himself flooded with some _very_ good laudanum. Glancing over at where Watson is staring out the window, Holmes giggles. Watson turns at that and says, "Enjoy it while it lasts. You won't be giggling when they take you off of it."

"I hate horses," Holmes tells him as solemnly as one can when drugged to one's eyeballs.

"Yes, Mary and I are in a paroxysm of guilt, fret not," Watson says, coming to the bedside and sweeping Holmes' hair from his face. It feels like paradise and Holmes arches up into it. Watson smiles a bit.

Holmes asks, "Where is Mary fair?"

"She took a trip back to the flat for some things that will keep you more comfortable until we can return you there."

"I'd rather have her," Holmes says, vaguely aware that the sentiment is too raw.

"She will be back, darling. Neither of us is leaving you."

Holmes has the vague sense that he smiles at Watson's use of the term "darling." The drug is making it hard to feel his face in the minute details. It must do something, because Watson softly repeats, "Darling. Our darling."

*

Holmes does not appreciate the process of recovery in general, but broken bones are some of the worst, because they bloody itch under the plaster and there is nothing to be done for it. It makes him irritable and snappish and then apologetic for being so when he knows it is not anyone's fault.

Watson finally does the only possible thing to salvage the relationship and keeps himself and Mary busy at the office from dawn until dusk. It leaves Holmes to his own devices, which nobody thinks is ideal, but is making the best of a bad situation. Holmes takes to going down to Scotland Yard and poking and yelling at them. At least they usually deserve it for something or other.

He suspects Lestrade throws himself on the mercy of Dr. and Mrs. Watson at some point, as Mary comes to collect Holmes and takes him home. Once there, she ties him naked to the bed in a way that will not harm his healing bone and spends all of the afternoon into the evening alternating with Watson coming into the bedroom, bringing Holmes to the edge of orgasm and then leaving him to wheedle and beg while the two of them…bustle around the rest of the flat, doing house chores for all Holmes can tell.

By the end of it, when Mary lies down alongside him and Watson undoes Holmes' working hand and says, "Well then, finish yourself off," watching him with intent, possessive eyes, Holmes is wrung out, shaken and shaking and worn. Watson cleans him up even as Mary kisses him and says, "Our poor darling."

Holmes says, "I'm sorry, I don't mean—"

"Shh," she says, kissing him again. "We'll take better care, that's all."

Quietly he says, "I'm a grown man. I shouldn't need—"

"You’re ours," Watson interrupts, climbing onto the bed to cabin Holmes in. "No other description matters. Certainly not should or shouldn't. Just ours. And we shall see to it that you are well."

Both of them are watching him, gazes warm, but serious. After a long moment he nods. "Very well, darlings."

Their laughter rings like bells in harmony. Holmes smiles at being the cause, and allows it to lull him toward rest.

**(Plus) One**

"It is _nothing_ , old boy. Honestly, I've done worse to myself in our kitchen, you know that," Watson says, dressing the small cut over his own ribs received in the fight they've recently concluded. Their assailants are jailed, the case closed, and in all honesty, Holmes really did take as much of a beating himself, only his is in bruises and lumps. Also, he is not Watson. It is all he can do not to growl. Mycroft would sniff and remind him that Holmses were not raised in outbuildings.

Instead Holmes drags Watson home to Mary, like evidence of his own wrongdoing. Mary laughs and says, "Well, if the two of you don't look like little boys who have just had a scuffle with the neighboring gang of tiny roughs."

She kisses their cheeks and herds them into the bath with the statement, "No dirty boys at my dinner table."

Holmes cleans them, focusing his efforts on being gentle, letting the thoroughness that's in his nature carry him. Watson humors him, even allowing Holmes to towel him dry and dress him. At dinner, though, Watson takes over, making a plate for Holmes and saying, "Everything on it."

For a long time, Holmes had thought this was merely the price for keeping them, listening to what they told him. He's never bothered for anyone else, never _wanted_ to bother, but with them, their willingness to grant even the smallest of accomplishments—remembering to eat, sleeping a whole night through—with praise and rewards that do not feel forced or insincere, it drives him in a way he is not certain he wants to understand.

He is coming to the conclusion that there are times when leaving things unexplained is not the worst of crimes. He eats his dinner, and Mary rewards him with tea spiced with cinnamon, and a slice of Mrs. Hudson’s honey cake. For all that she's a busybody, her cakes are rather superb.

*

In the bedroom, when Watson strips down, wincing as he raises his arms up to pull the shirt over his head, Holmes watches, taking in each detail. Watson glances back at him. "Holmes."

Holmes shakes his head and moves to Watson, settling his hands on Watson's breeches in silent request. Watson presses his lips together and considers Holmes. He brings a hand to the side of Holmes' face. "Will that make you feel better?"

Mutely, Holmes nods. Watson lets out a soft breath and says, "All right then, on your knees."

It's not comfortable. Holmes is too old, and his body has taken too much abuse for being on his knees on the bare rug to be anywhere near comfortable, but that is part of what he wants, needs, maybe, even. Mary settles behind him. Watson says, "Undress me the rest of the way."

Holmes complies and then waits, waits, waits. He has no idea how Watson knows exactly when Holmes is about to come apart in his skin, but just then he orders, "Open your mouth. Mary is going to hold your head. I expect you not to struggle, understood?"

Holmes looks up, catching Watson's eyes in acquiescence, opening his mouth. Mary's hands come to the sides of his head, not forceful. Holmes does not fight. He does not fight as Watson only gives him the head of his cock for a long, long time. Nor does he fight when Watson pushes into his throat, Mary holding him steady as he struggles to take what they are giving him, trusting him to take.

His throat aches and his eyes tear, but he stays still, past when Watson spends himself down Holmes' throat, past even when Mary kisses the crown of his head and murmurs, "You are so good for us."

Watson looks down at him, considering. He hooks his hands under Holmes' arms and lifts him to his feet, holding him until he has steadied. Running a hand up and down Holmes' back, he says, "On your back on the bed, naked."

Holmes does not hesitate. He's hard, achingly so, really, but he can barely feel it. What he can feel is the sense of being not quite far enough down. Not quite _theirs._ He follows directions, including Mary's, "Eyes on the ceiling, darling."

He hears the slip of fabric that heralds her disrobing. Watson seats himself on Holmes' thighs, taking Holmes' hands in his own, effectively detaining him. They could have just told him he is not allowed to move, but Holmes will not deny he prefers this, the contact of it.

Mary lowers herself onto his face and he licks up, sucking and arching into her. He does not even realize he cannot breathe until he is jerking instinctively in Watson's grip. Mary comes up and he pulls in a breath before she settles down again. Over and over, the breaks irregular, sometimes so late that his vision is hazy. It does not matter. What he wants is the taste of her on his mouth, even more than air. The more he goes without it, the deeper he falls, the breathlessness of it tipping him into the place where he's not Holmes, not even human, really, just theirs, their lover, their plaything, their darling.

She comes seated on him, rubbing desperately against his mouth, and when she lifts off he coughs, struggles to breathe until Watson leans down, pressing his mouth to Holmes' lips, forcing him into regulating his breathing, licking into his mouth, so that they are sharing the taste of her between them. When Holmes has calmed, Watson comes off his thighs, hooking Holmes' legs over his shoulders instead. Holmes has no idea when Watson has managed to get hard again, let alone grease himself, but he has, and he slides in without warning or caution. Holmes grunts as Watson bottoms out, a little too much too quick, but also, perfect.

Holmes hasn't even adjusted when Mary comes between them, sliding herself onto Holmes' cock with a sigh. Holmes shouts, startled. She leans down to kiss him. "No finishing before me, darling." 

Holmes whimpers. She's come once, and he knows from experience that means she can hold out for quite a while on the second time around, especially if she does not touch herself, which she is not, just yet.

Watson has his hands on Mary's breasts, thumbs flicking gently at her nipples, and she's leaning her head back enough for them to kiss, messy and sweet. Holmes has to look away before he's disobedient, Mary's tight heat causing him to practically dissolve into nothing but nerve endings.

He pleads, "May I touch you?"

Mary pulls herself away from Watson, cupping her hands on Holmes' face. "Yes, love, wherever you desire."

He takes advantage. They've taught him well in the practical arts of pleasure, and he's delved ever further into the theory, knowing he will always have a chance to try it out. His fingers are sure of themselves on her clitoris, certain of exactly what will please her best. She gasps, "Yes, darling, right there, that's it."

Watson shifts positions and Holmes mewls as his partner drives directly against his prostate, making Holmes body spark like a bonfire. He begs, "Please, please," and Mary says, implacably, "No."

Watson plunges again and Holmes barely knows he has fingers at this point, but he works them as best he can, drinking up the sound of Mary's quickening breaths, her soft, high pants of pleasure. He closes his eyes against the sight of them before him, but then has to open them, the sensations too intense in the dark. Mary smiles, "Just a bit longer, love."

He thinks he might be crying, every part of him straining with the effort of holding off, the only thing truly keeping him in check, the terror of disappointing them. He flicks his fingernail directly over her clit and it does the trick, her neck arching back, muscles tightening in a vise around him and he screams, "Please," even as Watson says, "Now, darling, now."

The rush and heat of it is almost too much, disorienting and harsh in its intensity, and Holmes knows he loses time. Mary is lying next to him, eyes half-closed, toying with his nipple when he begins to resurface, hardly knowing if any part of his body belongs to him any longer. Watson is still buggering him, slow and methodical and way, way too much, which he clearly knows, from the way he leans over and kisses Holmes and whispers, "Take it, darling."

Holmes whimpers, but nods, "Yes. Yes."

There is nothing then but them and their hands on him, claiming him, using him as they wish, as they will. Holmes is not even sure when it ends, the too-too-much of it resonating for far longer than when Watson pulls out, when wet cloths pass over skin that feels like the inside of a roaring engine, when they cuddle into him, subsuming him.

Mary kisses his forehead. "Ours, ours, and only ours."

Holmes repeats, "Yes."

**Author's Note:**

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